


Postscript

by Kasuchi



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Gen, Poor Dead Husband, Postcards
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-07-20
Updated: 2006-07-20
Packaged: 2017-12-27 18:26:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/982170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kasuchi/pseuds/Kasuchi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sir, more than kisses, letters mingle souls.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Postscript

**Author's Note:**

> Uh, yeah, I have no idea. And I don't know why I'm writing House fic all of a sudden, either. Inspired by Prompt #18 over at **hc_challenge** on LJ (now defunct).

She sits on the downy comforter in a dark room, unsure of whom or what she is and holds the thick stack of letters in her hands. She'd tied them with a ribbon, though when and why she couldn't remember. The edges of the papers are curling and turning yellow, but here they are and here she is, uncertain.

She is always uncertain; the future, the present, her life, her work. But the past is set in stone, unwavering in its wholeness and steadfast nature. She has nothing if not the past and it makes her wonder where she is going and what he is turning her into.

She looks at the stack of letters, tied neatly with a length of pretty pink ribbon and a careful bow, and feels the weight of them, suddenly. They're nothing; crème cardstock and India ink, stamp adhesive and envelope glue, texture and form and line and color but meaningless unless seen. Suddenly, she pulls apart the ribbon and opens the first envelope, its seal sticking from disuse.

 _Allison_ , it starts, and the name looks strange to her, sounds strange in her ears and on her tongue. She wonders if maybe she's less her and more her father, her mother, _him_ now because of it.

 _Allison_ , it reads, and her hands shake and her mascara runs and she's just so damned sick and tired of all of this she thought she'd moved on already but one stupid word on one stupid page from one stupid letter sends her back into herself again and she wonders if maybe she isn't everything she's said she is yet.

 _Allison_ , and the pen was held in deft fingers, she knows. _I just wanted to tell you I love you._ The calligraphy and the hand are sure, the arcs and dips of the words sensual in their own right, and the message filled with meaning and a hidden promise. It's so little and meant (means) so much to her, to her heart. The thick cardstock, textured and weighty in her hands, falls onto the downy comforter as her shoulders shake but no sound comes out. She is silent in her grief as she is silent in her anger.

The phone rings, twice, before the machine gets it. She lets it; she is warm and curled up in upon herself. This is her life, only it really isn't and she isn't sure whose it is exactly.

The machine beeps and a gravelly voice speaks. "Cameron," is all it says, but she knows and she knows he knows she knows and it's all one big tangle of knowing but never _doing_. She shuts her eyes tightly and refuses to care. See no evil, speak no evil, hear no--

"I didn't give you a sick day, so get over here. Now." Foreman and Chase have already called, and she faked ill with a well-timed spoonful of peanut butter and a glass of milk. It's all too easy.

He sighs heavily and she touches the envelope of the letter. _I just wanted to tell you I love you._ The purple stamp stares up at her, the address in the same, typeface hand. In the corner is his name and their - his - address, and it's just _such_ a contrast.

"You get today. That's it. I mean it." And there's a click. She looks out her window, at the cloudy sky all overcast gray, and is resigned.

It's all she has.


End file.
